


C'est bientôt la fin

by euterpe42



Category: Mozart l'Opéra Rock - Mozart/Baguian & Guirao
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Sci-Fi Epic, come on everyone let's overthrow the government, dystopian au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-03-04 03:52:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13355928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euterpe42/pseuds/euterpe42
Summary: Antonio Salieri's plan for surviving the New America is to keep his head down and do his job. Getting involved in a plot to overthrow the government and restore democracy was really not a part of that plan, but how can anyone resist Wolfgang Mozart?





	1. Penser l'impossible

**Author's Note:**

> A. I love dystopias; B. There are too many songs in this musical that could also be interpreted as revolutionary rallying cries (or good graffiti memes); C. I know this is ridiculous and the only reason they're in the US is because I am an American and can't write reliably about European politics but if we all collectively suspend our disbelief we'll have a lot of fun.

The summer heat was even sticker than it usually was in DC. The crowded subway platform didn’t help the matter—rush hour had gotten worse and worse in recent months. I’m sure some asshole on Twitter had already made a long thread about how the subway crowds were due to reduced infrastructure spending which had cut down on the times trains ran, and the closed stations were just security theater and not actually a viable way to defend national security and reduce the risk of terrorist attacks. But I’m also sure that asshole had gotten their account shut down for sedition ten seconds after posting the thread.

A train pulled up to the platform with a squeal. I checked my phone—I didn’t need to board this one, my train wasn’t due for another two minutes. I shoved my phone back into my pocket, and watched as the train pulled away from the platform and accelerated past and out into the subway tunnels. 

There. Graffitied over a poster on the opposite wall which had been previously counseling that If You See Something, Say Something. Now, the poster’s message was almost entirely obscured by a bright purple scrawl, just on the right side of legible. _THINK THE IMPOSSIBLE_ , the poster now said, signed only with a silver spray-painted star. 

It hadn’t been there before the train had pulled up, had it? It must have been. There was no way someone would have painted it while the train was at the platform—they would have had to hang onto the side of the train to do that which, given the speed of the train and the proximity of the third rail, was impossible. 

_THINK THE IMPOSSIBLE_ , the graffiti admonished me. I scowled back. Similar graffiti had been popping up all over DC—and New York, and San Francisco, and nearly every major metropolitan area that still survived in America. I had probably just looked right past it. It didn’t mean anything. None of those graffitied slogans meant anything. They had just become memes, hashtags that briefly flourished before disappearing from the Internet along with any accounts that had made the mistake of using them. If they were supposed to be spurring revolution, it was a pretty shitty method of doing so.

I shook the thought of revolution out of my mind. It was better that my thoughts were as supportive as possible. Especially since I was heading to Congress. 

My train pulled up, and I pushed myself through the mass of people as far back onto the subway car as I could. The graffiti still burned in my mind. _THINK THE IMPOSSIBLE_. Yeah, right.

The heat was just as oppressive when I emerged from the subway into the bright August day, and didn’t get any better by the time I reached Senator Joseph’s office. Thankfully, any sweat patches that had formed on the walk weren’t visible under the suit jacket, though I wasn’t looking excellent under the light in the men’s bathroom. I squinted at my face in the mirror. Had my hair gotten too long? I hadn’t gotten a haircut since I moved to DC, and there was always the risk that someone would think my ponytail made me a radical, though Senator Joseph undoubtedly would have brought it up if it created an image problem. 

I checked my phone. Three more minutes until I needed to head down the hall to the meeting I had with Senator Joseph, and the men’s bathroom was a marginally better place to spend those three minutes than next to the coffee machine making mindless small talk with other staffers. Did I need another cup of coffee? No, that would just make me more jittery, which was not a good look for the meeting. I pushed back a stray hair. Should I do something about the ponytail?

The bathroom door banged open, and I suppressed the urge to jump, instead dropping my hands quickly from my hair. The only thing that could make my haircut worse would be gossip getting around the office that I was adjusting it in the bathroom, and exactly what that said about me.

“Antonio, don’t you have a meeting with the Senator?”

Just my luck. Standing in front of the bathroom door was the person most likely to spread gossip around the office about my hair.

“Yes, Mr. Rosenberg. I was just heading over there.”

Senator Joseph’s assistant chief of staff looked me over, his face contorting into an expression partway between annoyed, patronizing, and constipated. “The Senator is a busy man, you know. He puts a lot of trust in your youth outreach, but as one of his closest confidantes I have to advise you that his patience isn’t unlimited.” 

“Yes, Mr. Rosenberg, I understand. I’m going to the meeting right now.” I walked past Rosenberg and out of the bathroom—he was still standing in front of the door, and I figured he was the type to got some amount of pleasure from making me squeeze past him. I pulled out my phone to check the time as soon as the bathroom door was closed. Just as I thought—I was still early for the meeting. What a prick. 

Senator Joseph was exactly two minutes early to every meeting, except when he was meeting his staffers. I had been waiting in the conference room for nearly ten minutes by the time he strolled in, finishing up a conversation on his phone. “Well, tell him that I agree with him about the border security budget, but I just can’t get on board with the mandatory badge amendment,” he said as he slid into his seat. “Thanks. Tell Bob he’ll have my vote once he makes the changes, and pass along my good wishes to his wife, of course. Thanks, you too.”

He hung up the phone and placed it definitively down on the table. “Praise God, praise this Nation, and praise the Flag and the Blood,” he said.

“Praise,” I replied automatically.

Senator Joseph then leaned across the table, staring straight at me. “So, Antonio.” 

“You said you wanted to meet with me about a...” I searched for the words he had used in his message yesterday. “...An opportunity to ‘appeal to the youths?’” It took all my self control not to insert some finger quotes. 

“Yes!” Senator Joseph said. “Exactly! As our resident youth expert, I have a special mission for you.”

Surely my birthday was in the government data file that had been submitted with my initial job application. But I had been job searching for years by the time I had become a staffer, and I wasn’t about to reveal to Senator Joseph that I was nearly 30 and sure as hell not a youth expert anymore.

“What can I do for you?” I asked instead.

He pulled a tablet out of his briefcase and tapped on it a few times, then passed it over to me. A video was playing on the tablet: it looked as if it had been taken from the interior of a shitty bar on someone’s phone. It took me a minute to figure out what was happening on screen. A guy—probably about my age, but it was hard to tell thanks to the video quality—was hopping around on a makeshift stage with a microphone. I assumed he was singing, but there were so much cheering and applause from the audience that it was hard to tell. I tapped on the screen to pull up the title: “AMADEUS LIVE AT THE SALZBURG PUB!”

I set the tablet down and looked back at Senator Joseph. “What do you want me to do with this?”

“I was talking to the Governor,” the Senator said. “Apparently this guy is the hot new act in all the bars in New Jersey. Very big, he definitely has the potential for fame. However, his music is not exactly...favorable to the government.” 

I picked the tablet back up and faced the mic towards my ear. I couldn’t pick out any lyrics. “What’s he saying?”

“Oh, nothing too terrible!” Senator Joseph insisted, waving his hands. “Just general sentiments about liberty and freedom and the working man, that kind of thing.”

I shrugged. “That could mean anything.”

The Senator nodded. “Exactly. I’m not inclined to take it seriously, but apparently the crowds at his shows can get a bit rowdy, and Governor Colleredo is of the opinion that he could become radicalized and create the risk of a riot. And given the Governor’s position with the President—praise--”

“Praise,” I said.

“--I’d rather stay in his good graces. So as you’re our expert on the youths, I thought you’d be the best person to handle this Amadeus man.” I managed not to roll my eyes. “Just contact him via Facebook or whatever the kids are using today. Meet up with him, persuade him to change his tune a bit, and I’m sure we can get him to promote a message more favorable to our administration. After all, he’s not even a rockstar—just a pretty face in a bar. Youth rebellion might be his selling point today, but tomorrow, it could be our words he’s singing to New Jersey.” 

I tapped the screen to pause the video. It unfortunately paused on a closeup of the singer’s face, eyes closed, right in the middle of hitting a note. “Of course,” I said, looking up at Senator Joseph and dropping the tablet. “I’ll reach out to him online, and I’ll set up a meeting. I’ll make sure we don’t have to worry about Amadeus any longer.” 

A broad smile spread across Senator Joseph’s face, and he reached over the table to briefly clap me on the shoulder. “I knew I could count on you, Antonio! You’re such an expert at all of this.” He stood up, grabbing his briefcase and the tablet. “I have a call with Governor Colleredo today. I’ll make sure to let him know it’ll be handled. Talk to Deborah about expenses if you need to head down to New Jersey to chat with this Amadeus.”

I nodded. “I’ll let you know as soon as it’s done.”

Senator Joseph swept out of the room, pulling out his phone as he did so for yet another call. The disappearance of the tablet had left an uncomfortable void on the table and a pit in my stomach. I knew exactly what that meant, though I tried to tamp it down as much as I can, as if I could force my intestines to absorb the feeling. 

The singer had looked a little like one of my friends from high school, and I was briefly reminded as to how that friendship had turned out. An unpleasant thought: it was already hard enough to keep on the straight and narrow without meeting up with this Amadeus. I reminded myself of how long it had took me to get this job, how much I had needed to embellish my resume and ingratiate myself with interviewers. So many of my old friends were still job-searching,working multiple part-time gigs until the money they spent on college finally paid off. I could not blow what might be my only chance fucking up like I did in high school.

I steeled myself and walked out the conference room. Just one Twitter DM, one quick meeting, and Amadeus would be a distant memory. 

I would not make any mistakes this time.


	2. Noyer les amours mortes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Salieri's a mess. Mozart's smarter than he looks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up for some depictions of violent police brutality in this chapter. (I mean, we're still on a messy dystopian roller coaster, so heads up in general for some generally unpleasant dystopian shit coming down the pipeline...)

It was stupidly easy to get in touch with Amadeus. He had a twitter profile, of course, and all it took was a DM saying that I was a huge fan and that I wanted to meet and talk.

That wasn't as much of a lie as I'd have liked it to be. Each evening since Senator Joseph had given me the task of bringing Amadeus to our side, I had found myself falling down rabbit holes on YouTube, watching all the clips of Amadeus's performances that I could find. I couldn't put my finger on exactly what drew me in. He was a good singer, he had an astounding level of stage presence, and even though he really only performed the sort of loud, fuck-the-police music that I thought everyone outgrew by the time they reached their twenties, I had to admit that he was a good songwriter. But that wasn't quite it.

If I were being honest, the way that he reminded me of my old friend Peter played at least a small part. But I wasn't interested in being honest about this.

So, after waffling over what I could say to Amadeus, I sprawled on the couch after work, three days after the Senator had given me my mission, and pulled up Twitter on my phone. I tried to slow my breathing (why was I suddenly incapable of being reasonable?) and composed what I hoped was a very calm and collected DM to Amadeus's official Twitter profile.

_Hey, I'm a big fan of your music, and I'd love to meet you sometime. Do you have any shows coming up?_

It was exactly two minutes and forty-three seconds before Amadeus wrote back.

_hey!!!!!! so glad to meet a fan <3 don't have any gigs rn but your profile pic looks cute and I'd love to meet you!!! where r u?_

I felt my heart rate go up again against all my better wishes, and tried to steady it. How long was a reasonable amount of time to wait before I messaged back?

I waited exactly four minutes and seventeen seconds before composing a message. _I'm in DC but I can meet you in the tri-state area._

In exactly one minute and fifty-three seconds, I had my response.

_world traveler! very cool!!! meet@ the auberge, corner of pulaski+tompkins in bed-stuy next sat @6pm!_

Exactly forty-four seconds later, another message popped up.

_if youre as cute as your pic i'll buy you dinner!_

Was this man a total idiot? At least I had a good, government-sanctioned excuse to be receiving these messages. If my Twitter account was swept, I'd get to argue I was playing along to serve America's best interest. What was he going to say if he got a knock on the door asking him to defend his DMs?

Though probably I was just overthinking this. Was I assuming that Amadeus (a wannabe rock star!) was trying to _flirt_ with me? No, I was the one who was an idiot for thinking that Amadeus would be willing to risk criminal charges just to send a random guy on the internet a flirty DM. I had definitely seen a YouTube video where he kissed a girl in the audience.

Though maybe all the kissing girls was an act, and he was actually too much of an idiot to figure out that the government would be sweeping his Twitter DMs for subversive content.

I finally managed to pull myself back to my phone. _I’ll be there_ , I sent him. I then groaned and rolled off my couch and onto the floor. This was the last thing I needed.

Unfortunately, there was no way I could get out of meeting Amadeus. Senator Joseph had taken to asking me about it whenever he ran into me in the halls of his office, and when he was too busy to ask for status updates, Rosenberg would come slinking over to my desk during the day and make obviously passive-aggressive comments about how he hoped my "important mission" was going well. So when I dragged myself to work the next day (the heat had grown even more oppressive the last couple of days), there was no avoiding a discussion of the most recent developments in Operation Find Amadeus.

At around 2 PM, Senator Joseph walked up to the front of my desk, placing his hands down on the surface and leaning in to stare at me with a broad grin on his face. "Antonio! Have you managed to contact that singer yet? I know that you young people are always on your phones, so I hope that you've managed to get in touch by now."

"Yes, I have," I said, and Senator Joseph beamed happily at me.

"Good, good! I knew I could count on you. But why don't we take a walk now to discuss it? I have a few minutes before my next meeting."

It was rare that Senator Joseph would talk to anyone but very senior staffers outside of scheduled meetings. I stood up hurriedly, and he placed his hand on my shoulder, directing me past the cubicles and down the hall to the emergency exit. He pushed open the door, and led me into a stairwell.

"It isn't miked," Senator Joseph explained, once the door had closed and we were alone in the stairwell. "Not that either of us would have to worry about the NSA overhearing our conversation!"

"Of course not." What was he getting at? I had thought that Senator Joseph was a perfectly bland, perfectly predictable middle-of-the-road, just far-right enough to skate by without suspicion, senator. And now he was concerned about being bugged?

"And of course all of this is fully sanctioned," he continued. "I mean, we are acting at the request of the Governor of New Jersey! But you know, Antonio, based on some of those YouTube videos... I just want to make sure that you're aware that cavorting with this singer -- well, things could get out of control."

He couldn't know, could he? No, I doubted he had enough connections with the NSA to read my Twitter messages, and he never would have hired me if he knew about the Incident. "I'm not sure what you mean," I responded, as blandly as I could, steeling my face against any emotional reaction.

"All I'm saying, Antonio, is just...be careful. I'm sure this Amadeus will have a lot of wild ideas, and he certainly seems to have a lot of charisma. But you're a governmental employee, and you signed an oath to the President and to the Country. I believed in your potential when I hired you. Do not betray me, do not betray the President, and do not betray your country."

My pulse hammered in my head. "I promise you that I will not be a traitor."

* * *

The train from D.C. to New York was so loud that it almost drowned out my thoughts. A small comfort. The wheels clattered and the whistle blew and we raced through the cold light of the early morning, past old abandoned farmlands and shantytowns of huddled masses of people breathing in smoke. Inside the train, it was almost oppressively warm, the little vent next to my leg feebly puffing out a weak stream of air conditioning that barely made a dent in the temperature. I was almost alone in the train car. The only other people surrounding me were a few scattered businessmen, the only ones left who were lucky enough to have a nice job in the city that could pay for a train ticket, but hadn't achieved the ranks of those who had chartered flights between Washington Dulles and JFK. I suppose that included me: I wasn't about to be included on Senator Joseph's private jet anytime soon.

I stared out the window almost aggressively, trying to avoid the heavy weight of my phone in my hand.

Every time it buzzed against my palm I jumped and checked the screen, though it was always just a notification informing me of a news headline or a Facebook update. Someone I knew in high school had become a father; he had posted a collection of photos of him holding the brand-new baby, with his wife’s presumably exhausted, un-made-up carefully cropped out of the image. Facebook supplied an option to send him flowers, which I considered but declined, prompting a little sad emoji face with a single tear to pop up. I scowled at the phone, flipped it over in my hands to hide the screen, and resumed staring out the window at the smokestacks puffing grey into the air until the train entered a tunnel and we pulled up to Penn Station.

I had been here once as a child, on a school field trip, back in elementary school when things were different -- though of course, all the signs had been there in retrospect. It had looked so much more beautiful then, the massive windows letting patterns of light gleam on the floor, white pillars shooting up into the sky. Now, everything looked duller, almost dead. Light could barely shine through grime on the windows; half of the walls had graffiti or outright trash smeared on them. My nose wrinkled. God, couldn't people pick up after themselves? Though surely people hadn't gotten more inconsiderate since I was a kid, and I had read recently that the mayor of New York City had cut the public transportation budget in half....

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the same star I had seen scrawled on the D.C. subway walls, and almost unconsciously, I turned my head to look. It was definitely the same star, accompanied by a scrawled message in the same handwriting. "Drown your dead devotions." What was that even supposed to mean? No matter. I had hours to kill until I was supposed to meet Amadeus, and I wasn't about to spend it in a grimy train station.

My phone buzzed against my palm again, and I quickly flipped it over to glance at the screen. Just a message from Rosenberg: "Hope you still get some work done today! Don't want you to be spending all of the day chasing after this singer -- remember you're paid by the taxpayers!" I rolled my eyes, pulled up my Uber app, and headed out of the station to wait for my car.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a slog. I had found a Starbucks to work in, mostly to keep Rosenberg happy, but hadn't gotten much done. There had been a group of homeless people begging in front of the shop when I walked in, and by the time my coffee was ready the police had been called. It was hard to answer emails and update Senator Joseph's Facebook account while the police were beating the group with truncheons. I had turned my attention back to my email when a sharp bang went off outside the shop window, and I almost jumped. One of the police officers had shot a man in the group, who was now clutching his leg and screaming. Another officer grabbed his arms, wrenching his hands off his leg and behind his back, zip-tying his wrists together with dispassionate efficiency. I winced, and tried to finish writing the email I had been in the middle of, but I couldn't look away from the scene in front of me. The man who had been shot was still screaming "fuck the police!" as he was dragged away into a cop car, followed by the other homeless people. Five minutes later, the only evidence of what had happened was a puddle of browning, quickly drying blood on the sidewalk.

The scene was still running through my head as I headed to the subway, and shoved myself into the mass of rush hour traffic crowding the car. My fingers tapped against my leg; the feeling of claustrophobia was overwhelming. Finally, I managed to push around the arm of the commuter next to me and pull headphones out of my bag. I turned them on, then pulled out my phone, elbowing another commuter in the process. In a few taps, I had pulled up one of Amadeus's music videos on YouTube. I let his voice carry me all the way to Brooklyn.

I really should have known better in trusting some singer off the internet. L'Auberge was a dirty, grimy hole-in-the-wall bar that barely deserved to be called a bar, topped off with partially broken windows and a sloppily painted anarchy symbol over the door. I glanced up towards the sky; the nearest security camera clearly had a clear view to the door. For the millionth time, I wondered if Senator Joseph was really going to be able to help if I got arrested on this stupid mission of his.

I swallowed, triple-checked the address on my phone, and pushed open the door.

I was instantly assaulted by a wall of noise. A pair of speakers on the bar was blaring out something that involved a lot of heavy guitar strumming, throbbing bass lines, pounding on a drumset, and screaming vocals. Behind the bar, the bartender was half wiping down the counter, half bobbing his head to the beat. I approached him, trying to screw up all my courage. "Excuse me?" I asked. He didn't notice, so I asked again, practically yelling above the music. "Excuse me!"

Finally, he looked up. "Hey, man," he said -- or more like yelled, given the volume. "You look lost. There's a bar three blocks away that has the craft cocktails and cute appetizers you need to impress your date.

I winced. "I'm meeting someone."

He looked at me askance. "Here?"

"Yeah. Umm...he's a couple inches shorter than me, kind of blond hair? A lot of eyeliner?"

The bartender practically giggled. "Oh, you're meeting Amadeus! Good luck with that diva."

"I'm sorry?"

The bartender gave a dismissive wave towards the corner of the bar. "He's over there in the back. Brings in plenty of customers when he deigns to come up here from Jersey, but he is a motherfucking handful. And if you're trying to sign him up for a label, good luck with that shit."

I had no idea how to parse any of this conversation. So much for being a professional youth expert. I finally decided on a "thanks," and headed to where the bartender had waved. Now that I was looking in that direction, I could see his messy head of hair poking up over the top of the booth. My heart was beating hard as I approached him. He was staring into what looked like a gin and tonic, playing with a straw.

"Hello, Amadeus?"

His head whipped up as soon as he heard my voice, and his face instantly burst into a broad smile. "My mystery admirer! Sit down!"

I took his invitation, and slid into the opposite side of the booth. "I'm not sure I'd call myself an admirer, exactly--"

"But you reached out to me on Twitter!" he broke in excitedly. "I was very flattered, especially since," he looked me up and down once, and I tried not to squirm under his stare, "you don't exactly look like my typical audience member.”

"Yes," I stammered -- why was I so awkward, so _stupid_? -- "well, I watched a lot of your videos on YouTube, and I just wanted to meet you."

He looked at me skeptically, and then burst into a wide grin. "You're here to offer me a record deal, aren't you? Finally! I kept telling my dad this would happen, and it's finally happening!"

"What? No. No, I'm not here to offer you a record deal."

His face fell just as quickly as he had smiled. Part of me winced: now I wasn't only botching this conversation, I was crushing a man's dreams. (Though honestly, why should I care about what a random New Jersey singer on YouTube was dreaming up?) It might be quicker and easier to just come clean. "Look," I started, "I was sent here by Senator Joseph from New Jersey. He's been very impressed with all the publicity your music has gotten. And while we can't offer you a record deal, we can offer you another kind of deal. We'll pay you very well, I assure you, and in return we'd just want you to add some more...patriotic sentiments to your music."

He looked back down into his glass, his face scrunching up. "You want me to _sell out_?"

"Not exactly--"

"No," he burst out, "it's worse than selling out! You want me to become a _propaganda machine_!" He slammed his hand on the table. "You say you're a fan, that you've watched my videos. What do you think I am, then?"

"A...a popular singer..."

"I'm a _musician_. An _artist_. My music isn't just a way to get fans or make money. It's my _soul_. So no, I'm not about to sing some pretty patriotic ditties for you and your senator." He fell back in his seat and crossed his arms. "Your type thinks they have it all figured out. You thought that if you came in here and said the right things and offered me enough money that I'd sing your songs. But you don't know anything. And just wait: tomorrow morning, you're going to get some pretty concrete proof of that."

"What do you mean?"

He grinned just as broadly as he had before, but this time his smile had a bite behind it. "You'll just have to wait and see." He reached into his pocket, pulled out some bills, and slapped them on the table before getting out of the booth. "I hope to never have the extreme displeasure of seeing you again," he said, and then sauntered out of the bar.

My phone buzzed from where I had left it on the table, right on cue. I flipped it up; it was a message from Senator Joseph. _Any luck with the singer?_

_Met with him, but no luck so far_ , I texted back. _I think we can push him further, though. I'll stay in contact with him._

I thought about what Amadeus had said, about something happening tomorrow morning. I considered mentioning it in the text, tipping Senator Joseph off. Then, I considered Amadeus's biting smile--his parting gift to me. I sent the text as it was before I could consider anything else.


	3. Les trublions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #troublemakers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short update this time (sorry, I'm a law student), but the next one is already in the works and will be longer!

Sleep did not come easy to me that night. Even after I finally fell asleep, I dreamt only in great gaping mouths and undulating ominous red shapes, with Amadeus’s biting grin interspersed throughout. Multiple times during the night, I woke up sweating, tossing and turning, wrestling to fall back to sleep again. It was almost a relief when my phone rang around 5 AM, buzzing against my pillow insistently until I realized it was not part of another dream and fumbled to answer the call.

It was Rosenberg. He did not even wait for me to answer before he started talking. “You have a new ticket back to D.C. and the train leaves at 6:30. I need you to be on it.”

I blinked, blearily pulling myself from sleep. “...What?”

“Given tonight’s events, we need you back at the office, not cavorting around New York City. I’d have thought that would be obvious.”

“What events are you talking about?”

I could hear his eyes rolling from the other end of the line. “What have you been doing, sleeping? Turn on the news. I’m surprised you didn’t hear about it, seeing as it happened right in your backyard.”

I rolled over to the nightstand and picked up the remote, turning the TV across from the bed onto Fox News.

“...quite knows how it happened, and why the screens cannot be shut off” an anchorman was saying, “though the President has assured us intelligence sources point towards foreign terrorists.”

“The real question,” another anchorman chimed in, “is how these terrorists were able to hack into the television screens, but I think we can all agree that the Democratic and Republican protest in Congress against raising the defense budget only aided the terrorists’ efforts.”

The channel cut to an overhead view of Times Square. While normally the giant TV screens that ringed the square were replete with advertisements and little publicity shorts of the President and Patriot Party imagery, now they showed...something else. It was hard to tell, given that Fox had blurred out the screens to censor the imagery. What was very apparent, however, was that Times Square was filled with crowds of people staring up at the screens, and at whatever was playing across them. Some were shaking their heads disapprovingly, some were merely curious, some were grinning with wonder. I hope the ones who were grinning knew that their images were caught on camera, and it was unlikely they’d have a job to go to in a few hours, at best. 

“Concrete proof,” Amadeus had said. Was this what he had meant? If it was, how had he known it would happen?

Belatedly, I remembered Rosenberg was still on the other end of the phone. “I’ll be on the train,” I said. 

“Good,” he replied, and hung up. 

The train wasn’t until 6:30. I leapt out of bed and started shoving yesterday’s clothes into my bag. There was still time to head to Times Square.

I was still blocks away when the traffic got so bad that the roads were practically a parking lot. My Uber driver unlocked the door. “Just get out here,” he said. “It’ll be quicker on foot.”

I thanked him and stepped out of the car, clutching my bag. The sidewalk was only marginally better than the street. News of what had happened in Times Square had spread quick, and I couldn’t avoid being pushed along by the crowd, all of us moving in an undulating tide that seamlessly turned corners and crossed streets with no acknowledgement of stop signs and red lights.

The nature of the crowd's movement seemed to unify its participants more than New York City pedestrians would otherwise be. A girl next to me shoved me playfully on the shoulder; I instinctively recoiled. She didn't notice. "Isn't this _awesome_?" she said with a grin. She was dressed in a school uniform--one of the fancy New York private schools--though her backpack was freckled with patches and pins. A rich kid, wannabe anarchist, taking a detour on her way to school. "Apparently there's similar demonstrations all over the country," she continued. She pulled out her phone and swiped on it a second before shoving its screen towards my face. "My sister's at UCLA, and a bunch of her friends saw the signs as soon as they went up after midnight. Maybe this is finally going to change this country!" The girl had pulled up a picture on her phone that was blurry and dark. I could just make out a crowd of people clustered around a fluorescent-colored billboard flanked by palm trees, though I couldn't read exactly what was on the billboard. 

Her face was undoubtedly caught on one of the street surveillance cameras. If her parents could afford private school, they could probably afford college. I wondered if she would get into any when her face was indelibly linked with a terrorist demonstration. 

I pushed her phone aside and moved more quickly through the crowd, leaving her behind to reach towards another kindly and doomed stranger. 

It took me another 15 minutes to get through the crowds to Times Square. Once I had arrived, craning my neck to look up at the TV screens with the rest of the masses, it took me a moment to figure out what I was looking at. The videos playing were just as brightly-colored and flashy as the original ads. But rather than imploring us to buy a Tesla or get tickets to the millionth rerun of Cats, the videos proclaimed in stark black text on a neon pink background:

_WE ARE THE FREE THINKERS_  
_WE ARE THE TROUBLEMAKERS_  
_WE ARE THE PAINS IN THEIR ASSES_  
_AND ENOUGH IS ENOUGH_

Between each line of text, an image flashed: a shadowy figure taking off a mask, a blue butterfly in flight, a moon and sun, and finally, a cartoon of the President being hit in the face by an overripe tomato.

Really? That was it? An amateur, childish, facetious cartoon? I was reminded of the simplistic slogans I had seen graffitied in the DC and New York subways. Yet just like those slogans, people all around me were pulling out their phones and taking pictures of the videos. I pulled out my own phone to check Twitter. #troublemakers had gone viral, faster than the FCC could shut down the responsible accounts. 

Above my head, the President was once again hit in the face with the tomato. Another text pinged in from Rosenberg, reminding me that it was now 6 AM, and I better make that train back to DC. Across the Square, through a gap in the masses of people, I saw the teenager I had run into earlier take a selfie with a screen reading _WE ARE THE TROUBLEMAKERS_ in the background. She raised her fist in solidarity before snapping the photo.


	4. Mi-lune, mi-homme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Salieri is pushed to make more decisions than he's comfortable with, thanks to the help of Aloysia Lange.

Two weeks later, everything had changed and nothing had changed. My job continued as usual--though now Rosenberg repeatedly ordered me to keep my tweets a bit more heavy on the law and order buzzwords. I still got up, went to work for at least nine or ten hours, came home, watched TV, and then went to bed--though now I had an intern to supervise. 

The protests had ruffled enough feathers in Congress that our office was spinning along twice as fast as it normally had, with the anti-protesting bills flooding the Senate floor, town hall meetings with concerned citizens back in New Jersey, and the donor galas to get some more money. The increase in activity meant an increase in spending, which was the cause of all the galas. The increase in spending was also why Senator Joseph was delighted when a friend of his family called him up and asked him to create an unpaid internship for his niece Stephanie. 

Stephanie's family was traditional old-money Connecticut WASP, and according to Rosenberg's gossiping to anyone who would listen, she had caused trouble at her finishing campus and had nearly been expelled until her father donated enough money to rename a building. I figured working in Senator Joseph's office was a way her parents could make sure someone was keeping an eye on her while being indoctrinated in Patriot Party values via osmosis, and the "unpaid internship" was so that she could skirt juuust below the radar of the Women's Right to a Home Act and claim that she wasn't really _working_.

Unfortunately, I was the person delegated to keep an eye on her. Given Stephanie's...exuberant...nature, this was twice as hard when prepping for a gala. 

"You’re arranging those plates all wrong, let me do it!” she said, grabbing two plates of appetizers out of my hand and swapping their placements on the table. “There! Much better. Though I really don't understand why I have to be in heels. Especially when I'm working."

I gave her my sternest glare, though I was unsure how successful it was. “You are _not_ working and you know it, Stephanie. All you're doing is talking to the wives and making sure they understand how grateful we are and that Senator Joseph represents their values. And informing the caterers if you see any waiters slacking.”

Stephanie's face contorted in the expression I knew meant that she was trying very hard not to roll her eyes. But thankfully, she swallowed the impulse and straightened the tray back to how it had been initially. "Well, I have a great idea for how we can drum up a little more positive publicity," she said. 

"Oh?"

She nodded. "I'm still putting the pieces in play."

"Stephanie, this isn't one of your half-baked ideas like when you tried to get Senator Joseph on Snapchat, is it?"

"That was a good idea! Everyone my age is on Snapchat, not Twitter."

"Yeah, well it took a lot of effort on my part to smooth over the debacle with the filters. Rosenberg is not your biggest fan right now, you know." 

"I promise, this is going to be good," she insisted. Any further attempts to tamp down on whatever Stephanie was planning were cut short by Rosenberg himself sweeping towards us so fast his tie almost flew behind him. 

"Are you two ready?" he demanded. "The guests are about to arrive. Stephanie, you shouldn't be off in a corner like this with Antonio, you know your father wouldn't approve. Antonio, come with me, and Stephanie, you be ready to attach yourself to the first wives who arrive."

I followed Rosenberg through the banquet hall as he berated waiters and inspected the hors d’oeuvres until the first guests arrived and he was distracted by trying to cozy up to the politicians and the businessmen. Then, I parked myself in the corner next to the dessert table where hopefully I wouldn't have to talk to anyone. 

That wish was quickly extinguished by a woman who floated towards the dessert table and began to choose one of the miniature cakes to eat. It really did seem like she was floating: her wide-skirted purple dress fell to the floor, disguising her steps. Coupled with the risqué strapless glitter-covered bodice and her elaborate updo, she was positively otherworldy.

I assumed at first that she hadn't noticed me or was choosing to ignore me: my black suit made me look almost like a waiter, and it was risky for an unaccompanied woman to get too friendly with a strange man. Yet without even making eye contact--still appraising the cakes--she smiled slightly and said, "Good evening, Mr. Salieri."

It took me a second to realize she was talking to me. "...Good evening, Mrs...."

"Lange. Aloysia Lange."

Of course the woman with the alien dress would be Aloysia Lange. No one else would make such a sartorial choice. Mrs. Lange had garnered a reputation even among the men on Capitol Hill for the dramatic; rumor had it that she was the brains behind her husband's work in the House of Representatives. I had known Representative Lange would be here, as he often worked with Senator Joseph. But I hadn't anticipated talking with his wife--that was Stephanie's job. I certainly hadn’t anticipated that she would recognize me, know my name, and try to strike up a conversation. 

Nevertheless, I had to be polite. It wouldn't look good for Senator Joseph if one of his staffers was rude to Aloysia Lange.

"Mrs. Lange," I murmured, "it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance." 

She held out her hand as if this were a nineteenth-century drama and I was supposed to kiss it. Instead, I stared at it for a second, trying to figure out what I was supposed to do with it, until I realized I was taking too long to make a decision and settled for some awkward blend of a handshake and a squeeze. She batted her eyelashes and gave a slight smile as if I hadn't just botched whatever I was supposed to do. 

"Are you a fan of desserts, Mr. Salieri?" she asked, turning towards the dessert table again and selecting a miniature chocolate cake. She lifted it onto one of the small dessert plates and handed the plate to me. 

It looked amazing. I considered devouring it on the spot but even the cake couldn't restore my appetite, which had disappeared as soon as I was trapped in the corner with Aloysia Lange. Instead, I swallowed down nothing. "How do you know who I am?" I asked. 

She smiled another half-smile. "I know more than people expect of me."

"Believe me, Mrs. Lange, your reputation precedes you. It's not that I don't expect it from you--it's that I wouldn't expect you to bother knowing all of Senator Joseph's staffers. Not to mention making conversation with a man alone." It was a dangerous volley to throw back at her. Not a very wise one, either: she had much more prestige than I in the Capitol Hill aristocracy, and would be better able to leverage the vulnerable position our conversation had put each of us in. I had been thrown, though: by being cornered, by how she knew who I was, by her strange half-handshake, by how she seemed to be half human and half celestial, by the utter feminine mystery she was cloaked in. I had never managed to understand women; Aloysia Lange took that to a whole new level.

If she was rattled by my near-accusation, she didn't let it show. Instead, she gave a slight shrug of her shoulders. "I've always been...." She delicately cut off a piece of her own little lavender cake with the side of her fork, lifted up the piece to her mouth, and slowly ate it. "...a troublemaker," she finished. 

I blinked back at her. Was that choice of words an accident? Or did she really mean to sneak in a reference to the protests that had swept the country?

"I'm not fully sure I understand, Mrs. Lange," I said.

"Oh, I'm sure you do, Mr. Salieri," she replied. "In fact, I suspect you know more than you're letting on." She took another slow and delicate bite of cake. "After all, you've been making so many connections." Another pause, another tiny bite. "So many interesting conversations. With fascinating people."

I blinked. There was no way she could have known about my meeting with Amadeus in New York. Right? "I really don't follow," I said. My voice betrayed me, cracking on the final syllable. 

Her smiled broadened. "Oh, please," she said. "No need to play innocent since I know where you really stand."

This was impossible. And it wasn't like it was a crime to be speaking with Amadeus, it was part of my job.... But what he had said, about concrete proof, that I hadn't told anyone about--if someone knew, if Mrs. Lange told anyone, it would be like high school all over again, and I wasn't sure if I could repair my relationship a second time. 

I was sure she could sense the fear in my eyes; I felt like it was the source of her feline smile. "Oh don't worry, I won't tell anyone, Mr. Salieri. I have no desire to ruin you--if I did, it would have been over within ten seconds of our conversation. Or rather, it would have been over before we even met, when I told every wife I know about your past, and they passed that information onto their husbands.”

"How...how did you know?"

"Do you think that now that we can no longer work, us women spend all day at home sitting and staring into space? I know all there is to know about my husband's coworkers and their staff. Your story was just the most interesting."

"It was much less interesting to live it, I can assure you." 

"You survived to tell the tale. That's undoubtedly interesting."

I had to laugh a little. "Only thanks to a great sacrifice."

She met my eyes; her pupils shined dark. "That is how we all survive now, Mr. Salieri. And it is because I know you know this that I need to ask you a favor. In exchange for my silence."

Of course there was to be a price. I nodded. 

Her smile disappeared in an instant. She put her plate down on the table, and drew closer to me. Her gaze still held mine tightly. "While we stand here in our fine outfits and eat little cakes, Mr. Salieri," she breathed, "millions do not survive. We have made our sacrifices to be here. Now we must make further sacrifices, in order to ensure that others may live. I have made mine. I continue to make mine. And so, I ask you: have you made yours?"

She picked up her plate again and selected another cake from the table. "The time is coming to pick a side," she said. "I suggest you consider that."

She gathered her skirts to leave the dessert table, then paused and turned back to me. Her iron eyes softened just slightly. "I did look him up," she murmured, almost apologetically. "My husband had access to the necessary databases. He was released from prison after only three years. He married two years ago. He and his wife have a child, and another on the way. He looks happy." She turned towards the center of the room again, and floated off.

I fell against the wall. I had never dared to search any databases. It was infinitely less painful to imagine him suffering in prison than to know that he had a wife and child and was happy. 

I messaged Rosenberg that I had suddenly fell ill and apologized for leaving suddenly. Then, I walked out of the gala as quickly as I could and called an Uber to take me home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back! I'm done with spring semester and so hopefully updates will come more frequently (at least until I go back to school in August). 
> 
> A quick note on the role of women in the CBLF-verse: women cannot work and are barred from higher education. (See the sister fic to this series, The Butterfly, for another angle on this problem.) Of course, as in many things in America, wealth allows you to skirt these laws--hence Stephanie with her "unpaid internship" where she doesn't *really* work and the "finishing campus" which isn't *really* education but is like the future version of finishing schools. 
> 
> Suggested musical accompaniment to this chapter: Rebel Girl by Bikini Kill.


	5. Nos petites guerres voleront en l'air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you're about to have a breakdown, the most logical response is to check your Twitter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for depression, anxiety, some mention of suicidal thoughts.

I ran up the steps to my apartment two at a time. I felt like I was going to throw up. "The time is coming to pick a side," Aloysia had said. And she had known about everything I had tried so hard to hide. It wasn't exactly a secret; the records were available for anyone with access to my high school personnel files to view. But getting this job had meant that that part of my life was over. That I could let the rapids of the Patriot Party pull me along, floating with my head just barely above water, seen by everyone as successful and  normal instead of whatever I knew I was inside. 

 

My hands shook as I tried to fit my key in the lock. I could barely walk in through the door and  fasten the deadbolt behind me before my feet took me straight to bed, pulling the pillows over my face. I briefly considered trying to smother myself, but I figured my unhelpful survival instincts would take over if I tried. Yet in the darkness behind my closed eyes and the weight of the pillow, all I could see was Aloysia, standing in front of me at the gala and stripping me bare, the way that Peter's fingers looked on my knee, and Amadeus's face when he had stormed out of the bar in New York. 

 

How could I have possibly lost all control of my life so quickly? 

 

I clenched tighter at the pillow until my lungs gave in and I shoved the pillow off my face with a gasp. The room swam before me; my skin itched like there were bugs crawling underneath it. I could feel my fingers beginning to twitch and shake, and it was all I could do to lie on the bed, forcing myself to inhale and exhale as my pulse quickened at my neck. I stared up at the ceiling, but my vision  narrowed into a tunnel until I could only see a patch of white.

 

I tried to ease myself back to reality, to focus my thoughts on the real and tangible world in which I now lived. My ratty studio apartment. Updating Senator Joseph's Twitter and Facebook profiles. Ignoring Rosenberg's snide comments. Going out with my coworkers every couple of months for one beer before I inevitably went home to this ratty studio and watched endless Netflix shows with too many glasses of the cheapest wine I could find at the grocery store until I ran the risk of passing out on the couch.

 

The feeling of suffocation only increased.

 

I tried to shake myself up, but couldn't will myself to rise from the bed. My body had decided to paralyze itself, save the motion it took for me to pull my phone from my pocket.

 

The Twitter app comforted me, and I let myself fall into a deluge of 280-character jokes and dumb memes and mindless Patriot Party slogans. My heart rate slowed back down as I slid down the gentle blue river, until I scrolled down far enough and hit a post by Amadeus.

 

I had forgotten that I had followed him on Twitter back before I had gone to New York City. A lifetime ago. I scrolled past his tweet for a second—it was a typo-ridden promotion for a concert he was playing in some godforsaken bar in a godforsaken town in the godforsaken state of New Jersey—and then felt myself drawn straight back to him. The photo he had selected for his icon seemed to look straight at me, his eyes rimmed with thick silver eyeliner staring into my soul.

 

I clicked on his profile before I knew what I was doing. His upcoming concerts, some outfit pictures reposted from his Instagram, and then—my heart almost skipped a beat. He had taken a selfie in Times Square, in front of the hacked billboards, flashing a peace sign while the sign behind him read "WE ARE THE TROUBLEMAKERS." I quickly scrolled up to DM him, typing and sending  the message  before I had a chance to second-guess my words.

 

Y _ ou should take down that Times Square selfie before you get in trouble. _

 

His reply arrived within seconds.

 

_ oh, so now u care so much about me?? _ he shot back. I winced.

 

_ I didn't mean to upset you in New York. _ I typed back.  _ I just have a job to do. _

 

_why do u care about this job so much? sen joseph's a prick. another patriot party coward wholl do whatever the party says!!_

 

I couldn't help but roll my eyes. His dramatics were just like any other teenage revolutionary's. I bet that he thought he was an original, but after running Senator Joseph's social media pages he sounded anything but. _Like it or not, the Patriot Party controls all three branches of government. Senator Joseph and I both think it's more valuable to compromise and get things done than to fight over what the best thing to do is and never actually do it._

 

_wow, so original! ive seen that exact same statement on your fb page!!_

 

Was he following Senator Joseph's Facebook page? That seemed very incongruous. _I'd rather make statements that are well thought out and planned in advance than to just spout off whatever risky nonsense comes to my head first. Or take selfies in front of protest signs._

 

_ i caught your eye tho didnt i! just like i said! _

 

I swallowed. I could feel the familiar tingling in my gut. I had tried to escape it, and was left here, in an empty barren apartment, a soulless job, a loveless heart. I suppressed the imminent panic.

 

_ So you were involved in what happened in Times Square? _

 

_ for shame, mr. salieri!!! _ he typed back. And then, a couple seconds later:  _ i haven't heard anything from u and u want me to tell u all my secrets?! _

 

_ Fair. I don't have much to tell you in return, though. I wager you know all there is to know about my life. _

 

_ lol! ur a man of mystery, anyone can see!! u think u have nothing to share? how come i cant find anything on the internet about u later than the last 7 yrs?? _

 

My heart beat faster; the tingling in my gut increased. But somehow, it felt almost easier to breathe than it had fifteen minutes ago. My brain  screamed that I was plummeting to my death. But some part of me felt like I was flying.

 

_ Less of a mystery than you. I don't even know your real name. You know enough about me to Google me. _

 

_ oh thats easy! im wolfgang mozart. _

 

I didn't bother to suppress a snort, alone in my bedroom. Out of every pseudonym he could have chosen, he thought I'd believe that he was Wolfgang Mozart? Everyone knew Mozart—he had been a child prodigy back before the Patriot Party had fully taken power. They had just been a fringe movement back then, slowly gaining Congressional seats, but Mozart's father had seen the writing on the wall. The YouTube video of  four-year-old  Mozart playing the National Anthem at Representative Colleredo's inauguration party had gone viral, partially because adorable small children always went viral and partially because of how beautifully Mozart had played. I had been six at the time and positively spellbound. 

 

_ you must think I'm an idiot to believe that. at least pick a better fake name. _ I messaged back.

 

There was a longer delay this time, and I had a sudden panic that I had crossed an invisible, unknown line, that this would be the end of my conversations with Amadeus. But just as I was considering burying my phone under my pillow where I couldn't see the flash of Twitter notifications, a new message popped up from Amadeus. A selfie of him, holding up his driver's license. He hadn't bothered to blur out anything—mustn't he know how easily anyone could steal his identity with just his driver's license number if they wanted to? But nevertheless, there it was: his legal name, MOZART, WOLFGANG AMADEUS.

 

Impossible. How could I have missed it? My childhood fixation, here before me via Twitter. 

 

_ you don't look anything like you did when you were four _ , I finally said.

 

_ lololol!! u watched that vid? _

 

_ of course. I watched it constantly when I was a kid. it made me want to play piano and motivated me to keep practicing. _

 

_ thats so sweet! i cant believe u watched that im blushing!!! _

 

I smiled despite myself. But before I could send anything back, another message from Amadeus—Wolfgang—arrived.

 

_ now u know my name, u gotta tell me something!! _

 

_fair's fair._ _I hate my job_.

 

_ lol not surprised!!! _ Wolfgang replied.  _ ur job sux! tryna make bad politics sound cool to kids. why do u do it? _

 

_ only one truth at a time. it's your turn. _

 

_ alright mr politician!! i havent seen my dad in yrs, since i moved to jersey. still write him sometimes, but thats it. _

 

_ wow. that seems pretty hard. _

 

_not as hard as it was when i was still living there! my sister still lives with him though. feel bad for her. but i see her more often!_ Then, a new message. _now its ur turn!! why do u do this job??_

 

_because I can't get any other job._

 

_i dont believe that! u could work literally anywhere else. uve got a fancy job for a fancy man people must be lining up to hire u!_

 

_Senator Joseph did me a favor. I only got this job because my family knew some people who knew some people._

 

_that cant be true! u seem smart. ive read ur tweets u write better than me!_

 

_tweets aren't exactly high art. but writing doesn't really have anything to do with it. I messed up as a kid, and that's followed me around ever since._ I could sense a follow-up question. I sent my next message before he could say anything else. _I answered my question, so your turn now._

 

_oooh, caught me before i could say a thing! speedy mr salieri! fine tho ill tell u a secret_

 

There was a long pause while he typed, longer than it had been before. I felt my breath catch in my lungs until his message arrived.

 

_ur smarter than ur job description_. he said. _ive seen what uve written online! and i was annoyed with u at first bc u were reaching ppl! they responded to ur messages! and they are such dumb messages! but i want to meet with u and talk with u more and get to know u bc u fascinate me mr salieri_

 

_you want to meet with me again? even after what happened last time?_

 

_i promise i wont run out of a bar again!!!!_

 

_and I promise I won't try and get you to sell out your values._ My head was rushing. I knew this was exactly what it had felt like the very first time. _I'm sorry I even tried to do so the first time we met,_ I typed, and let him rip me open. _I shouldn't have made you try and change your music. your music is incredible as it is._

 

_aaah so u like my music!!! well then we must get together again mr salieri and u can tell me which of my songs is ur favorite. take notes there will be a pop quiz and i will expect an a+ from u!!!_

 

I almost laughed. _are you still in New Jersey? I'll come up and see you._

 

There was a pause. Then finally, a message appeared on my screen: _youre dangerous_. Then, a second later: _i think u may lead to the death of me mr salieri_. Another second: _but despite your corporate kowtowing i have faith in u. new york city botanical garden. next fri @11am._

 

I mentally checked my schedule. I hadn't taken a day off in a while. It'd be short notice, and Rosenberg would doubtlessly make a snarky comment about taking a vacation, but I could possibly swing it. _let me check with my boss but I think I can make it_. I made my fingers type another message before I could think things through. _hope I can see you soon._

 

Mozart sent back the emoji of a hand making the "okay" sign. Then I put my phone down, breathing hard. I felt like I might have just run a marathon. Like I had just thrown my soul into the hands of the devil, or fallen into the glittery eyes of Wolfgang Mozart.


End file.
